


Pull Me Back

by Snowflake8



Category: Simon Snow & Related Fandoms, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Anal Sex, Cuddles, Established Relationship, Fangirl-era canon, M/M, SnowBaz, Vampireness, emotional smut, not much plot more the other thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:25:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowflake8/pseuds/Snowflake8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon is in danger. (As usual.) And he's hurt. (Also quite usual.) Agatha isn't sure they can trust Baz. Baz isn't sure he can trust himself. Simon just wants some rest. And Baz. (Not necessarily in that order.)</p><p>**</p><p>7th year - characters, etc, belong to Rainbow Rowell and Fangirl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pull Me Back

 

Simon sat slumped over in Baz’s desk chair, his cheek against the wooden desk top. His shirt was off, his skin prickling a bit in the evening air of the dorm room, and his wrenched shoulder felt… surprisingly better, now that his injured arm had been wrapped snugly in bandages by Penelope. She draped a green wool jumper like a shawl around his shoulders, and then let her hand rest gently on his head, and that felt actually good, warm on his scalp, fingertips moving absently with just the lightest touch through his hair.

She and Martin Potts were talking, softly, and Simon could hear Baz rustling about and muttering in the background, something about _your bed is such a disaster, Snow._ Which, to be fair, was probably an understatement—his sheets were more than overdue for a wash, and all rucked up and half-falling off the mattress, besides.

Penelope was saying, “There were an awful lot of them tonight. We must be getting closer to the entrance.”

“I don’t want to hear that,” Martin said. Simon could practically _hear_ Martin’s habitual rubbing-a-hand-over-his-face gesture; he must be really agitated tonight. “Can’t we stay away from the cliffs? The last thing we need is a repeat of this.”

“Next time we’ll be more prepared.”

“Next time we might not be so lucky.” Martin’s worried voice was very low.

Penelope shifted (uneasily?), but said only, “Everyone’s all right. Elspeth, too. And Simon just needs rest. We should put him to bed.”

“I can handle it,” Baz was saying softly, sounding only the merest bit annoyed. “He’s _my…_.” His voice dropped.

 _It’s okay to say boyfriend,_ Simon thought, but he didn’t say it out loud. It had been almost a year since they’d started… this. At first it had been just tolerating one another. Then there’d been the woodfoul incident, with the almost-accidental handholding. Then the kiss, more of a surprise than anything, and then sneaking out secretly, to hunt for hares, and to snog up against Baz’s favorite tree in the forest. And then, three months ago, Baz helped them rescue Lucinda and Martin from the goblin king’s trap, and everyone in the group learned that he was a vampire in the process. And that he and Simon were… this.

 _Boyfriends,_ Simon had insisted, stubbornly, and had tried not to be offended at Baz’s shocked expression. Sure, Baz should’ve told him earlier about the vampire thing. But it didn’t change things, not for Simon. It didn’t change what they did, except that Baz was more useful in a fight now, didn’t have to hold back in front of Simon and his friends. And it didn’t change… how Simon felt.

Now, tonight… Simon was having trouble focusing on any of their words, sifting them out into coherent sentences. It all just sounded like a murmur, like the water in the stream near the grove tonight, rising and falling. Soothing, though the thought of the stream, and therefore what had happened at the cliffs next to it (hordes of goblins, where did they all come from? which was of course what they were trying to find out; and nearly falling to his probable-mortal-injury, that too…), was less restful.

Then he heard another voice, from the doorway: Agatha’s. “All sorted?” she asked, and Simon couldn’t stop himself from tensing a little as he peeked out from under his eyelids. He was in no state to try to run interference between her and Baz.

Penelope was there, though. “Nearly,” she said, quickly.

“Thanks for your concern,” Baz said, and it wasn’t a snarl, or even overtly sarcastic, but Simon tensed further.

“I’m always concerned when my friends get hurt,” Agatha said, stepping into the room, her blonde hair moving as light as a curtain behind her, a bandage visible around her wrist. “It seems to happen a lot.”

Martin made a faint sound, something like _oh dear,_ and looked up at the ceiling, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Baz asked, stiffly, raising one eyebrow.

“ _They_ come out and put themselves in harm’s way to help—”

“Agatha.” Penelope moved forward a little, her voice reproachful. “Baz was helping too—”

“I’m aware, Penny. That’s not the point.” Agatha was using her full-force glare now, green eyes flaring. “I’m not concerned about people,” she paused only slightly, “who are… tougher than the rest of us. But where were _your_ friends tonight, Basilton?” Baz’s lip curled slightly, but he said nothing. “Can’t be trusted? Wouldn’t want to help anyway?”

Simon lifted his head, but no one seemed to notice.

Baz seemed to be trying to control his sneer. “You know nothing about them.”

“Please.” Agatha glared. “I know they haven’t _all_ dropped you like a hot dragon egg. So where are they? Or don’t you have the type of friends who are willing to fight goblins in the woods at your side?”

“Agatha—” Penelope started, but Agatha spoke right over her, in a tight voice.

“Maybe it’s just that they care about you about as much as you care about us? If we’d had just two or three more people tonight, maybe Elspeth wouldn’t be laid up in her room, maybe Simon wouldn’t have ended up hanging off a bloody _cliff_ by an _injured arm_ —”

“Baz is the one who pulled him back up,” Penelope tried to say, but she might as well have been talking to herself, apparently.

“I just haven’t—I don’t want to put them in danger—” Baz said, through his teeth, as if unwilling.

“Oh, so you won’t even _ask_ them, but it’s fine for us?” Agatha’s voice was low, and tight, an angry whisper. “Martin and Penny and Lucinda and Elspeth, that’s fine. It’s even fine if _Simon_ gets hurt—”

“Of course it isn’t _fine,_ ” Baz snapped, his voice just as quiet, and just as angry, but then it seemed to stutter, and he swallowed hard.

“Baz.” Simon sat up. Baz and Agatha stood facing one another, a few feet apart, a striking sight in the warm overhead light, the rough stone of the fortress walls behind them; both of them tall, and—even disheveled from the skirmish tonight—all made up of long elegance and shining hair, black and white-blonde. Simon could see the tiny twitch of Baz’s left hand, though his wand was nowhere in sight, and the way that Agatha’s nostrils flared a little. The way they each raised their chins slightly was eerily similar. Something about it made Simon’s stomach feel knotted, though he didn’t know why. Hadn’t he had dinner earlier?

They looked… they looked like… _Sun and moon, night and dawn…_ Simon shook his head, trying to dislodge all the pathetic clichés and just focus. “I’m fine,” he said, insistently, moving to stand, but Penelope pressed him back down into the chair with a hand on his good shoulder. “Just tired.” Neither of them responded.

Martin leaned over, and peered into Simon’s eyes, muttering some basic first aid spell or other. He was getting good with those. “No concussion,” he said. “Best get some sleep, Simon.” He patted Simon’s shoulder with his usual awkward affection, then looked over at Agatha. “Elspeth’s all right then?”

Agatha nodded. “Just a twisted ankle, it turns out. She’s fine.” She didn’t look away from Baz. “This time.”

“Good. Well. Um.” Martin clicked his tongue against his crooked teeth, looking between Baz and Agatha, and then appealingly at Penelope, who rolled her eyes and sighed. Before she could say anything though, a short, black-haired figure appeared at the door. It was Dev, one of Baz’s erstwhile cronies, and behind him, the hulking form of Niall, his roommate. Their room was two doors down, the opposite direction from Martin’s.

“Basil? What’s—oh, hello, Agatha,” Dev said, brightly, before seeming to register the rest of the occupants of the room and the stand-off going on in the middle of it. “What’s up?”

“It’s fine,” Baz said quickly, but Dev was already staring at Simon.

“You all right, Snow?”

Simon blinked, then looked down at himself. Oh. Jumper around his bare shoulders, bandaged arm, bruises and scrapes… really, they all looked a bit knocked about. Even Baz had a nasty scratch on his forehead.

“Nothing for _you_ to worry about,” Agatha said, so acidly that Dev flinched slightly.

“Hey now.” Niall’s voice was rumbly, though very mild, and he set a big hand on Dev’s shoulder.

“I was just—” Dev sounded confused. “What happened to you all?”

Now Baz’s hands _were_ fists, and his face was fierce. “It’s fine, I’ll talk to you in the morning. Agatha was just _leaving_ —”

“ _You_ don’t get to tell me what to fucking do, _Pitch_ —”

Simon stood up, pushing off Penelope’s hand. “Dear Crowley, stop it, both of you. Just… stop.” He was far too tired for this. He closed his eyes for a second and tried not to sway. Bracing his voice, he opened his eyes again and said, firmly, “Martin, go with Agatha and check on Elspeth. Make sure about her sprain. Pens, find the sling in my wardrobe and go with them, all right? I think Agatha might need it.” He hadn’t missed how stiffly she was holding her arm.

Now she put a hand on it and tried to protest. “Are you sure you don’t need any help with—?”

“No.” Simon paused, and tried to speak more gently. “It’s okay, Baz can take care of me.”

The odd look—a bit surprised, almost stricken—that flickered across Baz’s face made Simon’s throat hurt. He swallowed and continued. “Just get some rest, everyone.” He looked at them—Martin’s round, concerned face; Agatha’s eyes weary and still glancing at Baz suspiciously; Baz carefully _not_ meeting anyone’s eyes; Penelope looking just about done with the lot of them; his wonderful, aggravating friends, and he bloody _loved_ them—and then at Dev and Niall, still in the doorway, and then at Baz again.

Baz cleared his throat. “You, too,” he said to them. “I’ll talk to you in the morning, all right?”

Dev was staring with narrowed eyes, but Niall said, “All right, Basil,” and pulled his roommate away down the corridor.

Agatha still looked mutinous, and weary, but Martin was saying something low at her side, and insisting on looking at her arm as he urged her out the door. As they disappeared, Simon let himself sit back down with a grunt and put his head down onto his arm on the desk again.

Penelope sighed, and went to Simon’s wardrobe. Baz started packing up the first aid kit on the bed. After a moment, Penelope said, gently but firmly. “She’s not all wrong.” Simon was too tired even to groan, but he wanted to. “We _could_ use the help.”

Baz, though, only said, quietly, “I know.”

Penelope glanced over at him as she poked through Simon’s ill-hung shirts and trousers and various debris. “So. What will you tell them in the morning?” Simon had to admit that he was a bit curious himself.

Baz stopped and latched the case closed. “I can’t… I can’t ask them.”

“Why not?”

“I just… First of all, if Agatha doesn’t trust me, still,” Penelope tried to say something, but Baz waved her off, “then I can’t see how she would possibly be all right with Dev and Niall. They used to… _we_ used to… you remember what we used to do.”

“Yes, I remember.”

Listening, Simon remembered too. He remembered the pranks that seemed to get more vicious as time went on. He remembered Baz and his cronies laughing in his face, Dev and Niall and Alan and Malcolm. He remembered one ugly incident with Niall holding his arms, while Malcolm punched him in the stomach and Baz smirked on the side, supervising. He remembered Baz breaking his nose fourth year. Of course, he had blacked both of Baz’s eyes and almost knocked out a tooth in that same fight….

Baz was talking, he had missed some of it. “…The Cragshores and the Wellbeloves have been one duel away from an official feud for years. And Dev’s family—the Zhous are Mediators, for Crowley’s sake. Dev can’t afford to make enemies.”

“Are you really saying all that is more important than what we’re trying to do? Than stopping the Humdrum?”

“Of course I’m not,” Baz snapped as he handed her the kit to stow away. “I’m just saying… it’s not easy for them. Wouldn’t be easy.”

Penelope shook her head. “It’s not easy for you, either. If your father knew….”

Baz shrugged. After a long pause, he said, “There’s a lot of things people don’t know.” He swallowed. “Things my friends don’t know.”

Oh, gods, Simon thought. It hadn’t occurred to him that even Baz’s best friends didn’t know about the vampire thing.

Penelope, though, just raised her eyebrows, light glinting off her glasses. “Don’t they?” As Baz gaped, she made a sound of satisfaction and pulled the sling out of the wardrobe. “And I’m just saying, Basil,” she said as she made for the door, “that you shouldn’t make decisions for them. Give them a chance.” She shut the door behind her.

Simon lifted his head and rolled his neck. So tired, and his muscles were starting to ache. _Remember us? Can’t just treat us like that and expect us not to kick up a fuss...._ Simon shook his head and tried to roll his shoulders, which turned out to be a bad idea.

Suddenly there was a toothbrush and cup in front of his face. “Here,” said Baz. “Clean your teeth.”

“Yes, mother,” Simon sing-songed, just on principle, but obeyed. He was actually rather glad not to have to stand at the sink just now.

Baz’s tooth cleaning regimen was rather involved—extensive flossing, a sonic toothbrush, and an odd sort of mouth wash that changed colors when shaken—but it was soothing to watch him tonight as he fussed about and frowned into the mirror. He rinsed Simon’s brush and cup and brought him a drink of water without even being asked.

“Sorry about that tonight,” Baz said, as he took the cup back and set it on the sink.

Simon peered up at him, head propped up on his hand, elbow on desk. “I’m not the one who needs an apology, you know.”

Baz rolled his eyes. He knelt down and started untying the laces on Simon’s shoes.

“Baz—”

“I know,” Baz snapped. “I _know._ I know she’s right, I….”

Simon had only been going to tell him that he could deal with his own shoes, but he just kept quiet. Clearly Baz needed to say this.

Baz’s knuckles were white, squeezing the heel of Simon’s leather Oxfords. “I can’t… Niall—” He swallowed. “Niall would do anything I ask,” he said, quietly. “Anything, right away. Without… without question.”

“I know,” said Simon, quietly. He remembered Niall holding his arms, fourth year—the boy had been strong as a bear, even then—while Baz smirked. It was more bemusing than distressing now. It was like something that had happened to someone else, with some other boy looking on, someone who looked oddly like his Baz.

Baz glanced up at him, and turned his head away, his cheeks flaming red. “He hated that,” he said, his voice hoarse and low, pulling off Simon’s second shoe, turning it in his hands.

“What?”

“Niall. He hated doing that. He hates hurting people. Or animals. Or even insects, for Crowley’s sake. He rescues _spiders_. He… I don’t ask him to do anything like that anymore.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“Yes, but… I stopped. Even before, before you and I…” His eyes flicked away. “I don’t. I can’t. He never says no to me, and he’s my _friend_ , since we were born, practically, I just… I can’t ask him to do this. I try not to ask him to do anything. Because he won’t _think_ about it, he won’t consider the risks, he’ll just do it, just because it’s me, and Dev will probably do it because of him, and… Simon, I can’t.”

“Baz. It’s all right.”

“Except how it really isn’t.” Baz rubbed his face with his hands. “Except how Agatha’s right—” this through clenched teeth, “—and you need all the help you can get. The more reliable the better, and Niall is as reliable as they come. If Agatha could just give him a chance.”

Simon put a hand on Baz’s head—it was just a convenient height. “She was just… upset. She’s so protective, of Elspeth and Lucinda—”

“Of you.”

Simon shrugged and let his hand fall. “I guess.”

“Agatha….” Baz grimaced, and pressed the heel of his hand into the side of his head, twisting it. “She drives me mad.” This was a common thread, Baz complaining about Agatha, or vice versa. He didn’t usually mind; normally he was too busy being glad that they tolerated each other at all. Tonight had been far worse than usual. But Simon was too tired to follow the established track of conversation, and his stomach still hurt.

He didn’t mean to say it, but: “Like I do?”

Baz looked at him, blinking. “What?”

Simon looked away. In his mind’s eye, he saw them again: tension humming, tongues barbed, snapping at one another in a way that was all too familiar. Huh.

“Hey.” Baz kneeled up and leaned closer. “What are you talking about?”

“You two just looked… you’re both practically preternaturally beautiful, and… like a matched set. That’s how you look. And don’t tell me that you’ve never thought about it. I bet your parents would love to set you up. Old-blood families, united.”

Baz pushed to his feet abruptly. Simon was immediately sorry he’d said anything, and Baz’s voice just made it worse. “Simon. Just don’t.”

“I know, I—sorry. It’s not….” Simon tried to clear his throat, tried to laugh a little. “It was probably just the way she called you ‘Pitch’ there at the end.” Yeats, he felt ridiculous.

“Oh.” Baz blinked again. “Oh. You haven’t called me that in a long time.”

“Nope.” Simon tried to make it light. Tried.

“I suppose you could always start again, if it makes you feel better,” Baz said, his mouth twitching on the left side.

Simon started to laugh a little, shaking his head. Suddenly Baz was close, really close, leaning on the arms of the chair so that he had to look up, straight into his face.

Baz ghosted his fingertips along Simon’s cheek and traced the pad of his thumb over Simon’s lips. “But I rather prefer the other.”

Simon met his eyes, so grey and clear, and suddenly his stomach unknotted, like he’d finally pulled the right end of the laces on his trainers, and he couldn’t hold back a grin. “What? Basilton?”

Baz rolled his eyes and waited.

“Oh, you mean _Tyrannus_ , then.”

“Ecchh.” Baz made a face. “You think you’re so _funny,_ Snow.” He started to straighten up, but Simon put a hand on his arm.

“Okay,” he said, still grinning a little, and let the moment stretch long, too long, awkwardly long. “…Baz.”

Baz puffed a laugh, letting their foreheads bump, then kissed him, gently, and pulled back. Simon laughed, but Baz was still _looking_ at him, eyes tracing his face, his body, studying his arm, till Simon felt itchy under his gaze. “What?”

Baz shook his head and turned away to fold down his bedcovers. “I’ll talk to them tomorrow. Dev and Niall. I’ll ask them.”

“Oh. I thought you couldn’t.”

Baz nodded. “But Penelope’s right, of course. They can make their own decisions.”

Simon grinned, shrugged lopsidedly. “Well, she is the smart one.”

“The _other_ smart one,” Baz said, snippy. “Can you manage your clothing?”

Simon considered saying no, just for one sly moment, but then nodded and pushed off the jumper and then removed his trousers. He didn’t bother with pyjamas, or even a t-shirt—surely he didn’t need to be stretching his shoulder up and over his head, at least not tonight—and was left in just a pair of flannel boxers.

Baz didn’t even complain, just settled Simon down onto into his bed, pulling up the sheets and blanket to his neck, kissing his forehead, and then turning toward Simon’s bed.

“Baz?”

“Yes?”

“Could you just….” He tugged on Baz’s sleeve.

Baz frowned. “I don’t want to jostle your arm. I can just sleep over here.”

“On _my_ filthy bed? Seriously? Shall I tell you how many weeks it’s been since I did laundry?”

“Do NOT.” Baz wrinkled his nose. “I can strip the sheets and lay down a blanket, it’ll be fine.”

“Baz. Come on, I….” Baz wasn’t going to make him _say it_ , was he? He knew perfectly well how clingy Simon was at night. “Please?”

Baz sighed and gave in. “All right. Just sleeping, mind.”

“Sure.”

“You’re _injured_ , Snow.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Sure, sure.”

Baz shot him a look, but then sighed and proceeded to turn off the overhead light, leaving only a small glow from the lamp on his desk. Simon could hear the sound of clothing—trousers, shirt, socks—dropping into the hamper, but he didn’t open his eyes until Baz touched his shoulder.

Black boxer-briefs and a v-neck t-shirt that looked so soft and worn that Simon was half-convinced it would fall apart just under his gaze. Crowley. He _had_ intended to just sleep….

“Budge over,” Baz said, poking his good arm with one long finger, and Simon grinned and rolled over, onto his side. He felt Baz slide under the sheets, spooning up behind him; there was hardly much alternative in these narrow beds. And Simon was glad, glad, glad. A click of the lamp, and Baz tucked his cool limbs in around Simon, his breath warm on the back of Simon’s neck. Simon reached back, and tugged Baz’s shirt up far enough to let his bare stomach press against Simon’s lower back, then wriggled back as close as he could and sighed.

“Quit fidgeting. It’s time to sleep, Snow. I’m tired.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Simon grinned. “Pretty sure that’s not your wand in your non-existent pockets.”

“Oh, shut it.” Baz’s voice was a bit muffled, against the back of Simon’s head. Then he huffed out a sigh. “It’s not my fault you smell like….”

“Like what?”

“Never mind.”

“Like _what?”_

Baz only sighed again, shaking his head, nuzzling further into Simon’s hair. “Just go to sleep.”

And Simon must’ve been awfully tired, because he did.

 

###

 

It wasn’t really morning yet when he woke, in that perfect waking state, rested but pleasantly drowsy. The room was dim, only the faintest light coming in through the windows, and he was still wrapped in Baz’s arms, one lying heavy across his waist, the other curved over Simon’s head. The sheets smelled of cedar and mint. He could’ve dozed back off easily, or gotten right up… but then he felt Baz’s sleeping breath from behind, soft across his neck, and he shivered, and moved a bit, stretching, his muscles rolling all the way down his back, down through his hips, down to his toes. He slid a foot between Baz’s chilly ones.

Baz stirred slightly but didn’t wake. Simon drew his hand up and uncurled it, kissing the palm, wrist, each finger joint. He felt Baz’s breathing, altering to wakefulness, and smiled, then shifted his pelvis, pressing backwards.

Baz grunted and tightened his arms and legs for a moment. “Morning?” he said, into Simon’s hair.

Simon grinned, and pulled one of Baz fingers into his mouth, circling it slowly with his tongue. “Sure.”

He felt the catch of breath before Baz spoke. “Oh, is that how it is, then?”

“Sure.”

“What about—” Baz paused, pushed up a little on his right arm, then kissed along the curve of Simon’s shoulder, gently, toward his wrapped arm.

Simon managed to snort derisively and shiver at the same time. “It feels fine, really.” He shifted his legs, tangling them with Baz’s, and held onto his hand more securely. “Really fine.”

He could feel the smile—cheek muscles quirking up, lips drawing tight—against his skin. “All right.” He could hear the smile in Baz’s whisper, too.

Baz’s hand feathered down Simon’s arm, over his waist, back up his front. Warmth roiled in his belly, and his skin felt like somehow the volume had been turned up, like every touch crackled. But he was also so comfortable, so relaxed. Such an odd combination, and he really didn’t want to disturb it.

“Just. Like this,” he said, and moved his arm backwards, hooked his fingers around Baz’s hipbone and pulled him closer. Simon lifted his arm (better angle), and slid his hand around the back of Baz’s neck, behind him. _What happened to not stretching your shoulder up?_ his arm twinged at him. _Shut up,_ he retorted.

He raised his chin, and Baz obligingly began kissing his ear, his jaw, though (as usual) his lips skittered nervously, glancingly, over Simon’s neck. _Poor Baz,_ Simon thought hazily, _he always worries._ Simon pushed his hips back again, small motions, and Baz gasped a little, his own hips starting to rock in response.

Simon could feel his cock, pressing solid through thin fabric layers, and the wrinkles of his shirt against Simon’s bare back, and felt suddenly impatient, and frustrated at the very idea of pausing.

“Maybe with a little less shirt,” he mused anyway, plucking at the back neckline on Baz’s shirt.

“That could be arranged,” Baz said, and started to lean away. Cool air brushed over Simon’s skin as they separated and he felt irrationally annoyed, pressing back, trying to maintain the contact.

“Can’t it be arranged without you _moving?_ ” Simon said. Whined a little, maybe, but he was too drowsy and comfortable to care about that.

Now he could even hear the smile in Baz’s huff of breath, though he said nothing, merely shook his head, black hair brushing loose over Simon’s skin as Baz sat up slightly, awkwardly, peeling the shirt off. Simon tugged on his arm as soon it was clear of the fabric, and Baz lost his balance, falling half over Simon with an _oof,_ but catching himself on one stiff arm, jarring the mattress.

“Supernatural grace,” Simon snickered.

Baz rolled his eyes, but eyed Simon’s bandages. “Are you sure…?”

“Shut it, Baz, just—just. _Here._ ” He tugged, pulled him close so that they were spooned on their sides again.

“Impatient _and_ whiny,” Baz said, affectionately. “All right already, Snow, I’m here, just—” He cut off with a muffled groan as Simon craned his neck around, kissing him, morning breath be damned, and grinding his pelvis back at the same time.

Sadly, Simon’s neck started to hurt a little from the angle all too quickly. “We can—” Baz began, but Simon shook his head and turned back, hunched his shoulders so that he could feel Baz’s bare chest, all that skin, against his shoulder blades, against his spine, down his back, lean muscle and soft skin, all the way down. He actually moaned, even though he felt faintly ridiculous. It was just his back… but every inch of his skin felt tingly and so _good,_ almost orgasmic already, and he couldn’t stand the thought of pulling away. Was there such a thing as a cuddling kink? The small of his back almost stung with pleasure. He couldn’t keep his hips from moving, rocking slightly, incessantly.

Baz’s hands pressed into Simon’s front, one wandering his upper chest, one kneading into Simon’s thigh, both pulling him securely back against the long lines of Baz’s body. His breath was in Simon’s ear again, hot, humming faintly. Simon shivered, and rolled his hips and body all the way down, feeling the slide of a thin sheen of sweat starting between them, and he could feel the jump and stutter of Baz’s breath in his chest.

“Gods, _Simon_ , that’s….”

“What?” Simon asked, and did it again, the stretch of muscles and tendons like a wave, undulating from his neck down to his toes.

“Completely unfair,” Baz breathed, his teeth running gently along the edge of Simon’s ear.

Simon tried to scoff, not very successfully. “Unfair?”

“Completely.” Baz nibbled his earlobe, and then began kissing the soft spot just behind and below it. “Completely unfair. Completely hot.”

Simon laughed, a bit breathless. “Completely not naked enough.” Baz laughed too, and slid his fingers under Simon’s waistband. “But no moving away,” he added sternly.

Baz snorted, muttering something about _unreasonable,_ but between them, they managed to shimmy out of their pants without much disturbance. The extra few inches of skin contact (velvety cock and bollocks against the small of his back) was disproportionately amazing, and Simon felt like he was quivering with _yes good that_. He sighed into it for a moment, and then shifted up a bit, thinking they should be able to manage….

Baz started to draw away. “Shall I—” His fingers trailed down Simon’s arse, but the bureau drawer was so far away, Simon couldn’t bear even that much loss of contact, even though he knew it was stupid. He shook his head.

“It’s fine,” he said. “Just—slowly.”

“Well, at least….” Baz leaned backward; Simon started to whine in protest, but the arm around his chest stayed firm, almost rolling him on top for one brief disorienting moment. And then they were back, steady again, and Baz was muttering something low, and Simon felt slippery fingers, and then heard the click of a wand on the trunk. Of course, Baz _would_ know a spell….

“Slowly then,” he said, breathing into Simon’s ear again, and Simon nodded, and exhaled, deeply, relaxing, trying to welcome the pressure, fingers, then the hard, smooth head advancing and retreating, just a little at a time; the stretch, firm, gentle, inexorable. Slick fingers teased the head of his prick, and he shuddered, and felt Baz slide in further, pull back, steady and slow and perfect, while his skin quivered, glowing with sensation, all down his back.

Now Baz’s left hand was wrapped around his cock, pulling slow and firm, and the other was hooked under Simon’s arm, drawing him close, occasionally teasing at a nipple, but mostly just holding on, palm pressed flat over the center of Simon’s chest, right over his heart, and it was like he could feel the heat of it all the way through to his spine, making him gasp, pressing his lungs into a new rhythm, as he breathed into Baz’s measured, steady thrusts up into him, as he pushed and clenched back into them.

Baz groaned, starting to lose coherence. “Gods, gods, Simon, love, you… fuck, the way you…” He panted, his mouth falling open a bit, and for just a moment, his teeth touched the back of Simon’s shoulder, the base of his neck—the prickle of it made Simon twitch and moan.

He was terrible with words, especially at a time like this, but he tried: “Hell, fuck _yes_ , Baz, that. Again, you can….”

The rhythm of their hips faltered. Baz groaned and ducked his head down, panting, whimpering wordlessly. Simon pressed down onto him, and they were both so hard and he was so _full_ , and practically thrumming with _goodgoodmoregood_ , but Baz had stopped, was shaking, and not in the good way….

“Baz, what,” Simon started and then, _oh._ Teeth, neck…. Oh Baz. His forehead pressed between Simon’s shoulder blades, and there was far too much air between them like this. So Simon wriggled his shoulders, getting under Baz’s chin, and arched his back slightly, keeping contact, ignoring any twinges in his shoulder and arm. He grabbed Baz’s hand, the one over his heart, and laced their fingers together; he put his head back, leaning into Baz’s shoulder, their cheeks touching.

“Shhh, Baz, it’s all right, just….”

“But—”

For a moment Simon wished they were facing each other, but… Simon swiveled his pelvis a little, drew up, away, then shoved back, fucking Baz up into him. Baz made the most fantastic sound, of need and surprise, his arms compulsively pulling Simon closer, and Simon almost laughed. He did it again, and then ground down, gasping. At the same time, he stretched his head back, and reached up a hand, pulling Baz’s face closer, into his neck.

Baz whimpered again. “Simon.”

“Baz, it’s okay. You can… I trust you. I know you won’t….” He ran his fingers up into his hair. “I trust you.”

For just a second, Baz stilled, so still that Simon could feel their hammering heartbeats (against his back, _inside_ him), could hear Baz’s held breath. Then Baz hissed and licked up the side of his neck, thrusting up at the same time, faster, and it was Simon’s turn to whimper.

“Fuck, yes, Baz….” Baz’s hand was moving fast on his cock too, now, and Simon could barely gasp out the words, his whole body tightening, balls and muscle and skin, prickling with heat and tension. “Like that, just… you can… whatever….” _I trust you, Baz._

Baz’s mouth was latched onto the side of Simon’s neck, sucking and rolling the skin between his tongue and teeth, and wow, that was going to leave a bastard of a mark, and it felt amazing. And Baz was practically growling, snarling out low, panting words between thrusts, like he barely knew what he was saying. “Never, you hear me, Simon—Oliver—Snow. Never.”

 _I know._ Simon’s eyes were shut; sparks were swirling around behind his lids, and every point they touched was nearly unbearably sensitive. His hands clutched at Baz; he felt like he was clinging to a cliff’s edge, every muscle straining, like he was going to fall….

“ _Never_ ,” Baz hissed, straight into his ear, and even his whisper was somehow raw. “I won’t… not even if you beg. Never… I won’t—turn you, I won’t hurt you, you, you _can_ trust me….”

“I know.”

“Simon.” Baz’s voice was wrecked, broken, but his hands were perfect, insistent. “Come on, Simon, I’ve got you, just….” And Simon cried out and let go _(falling, falling, striking bottom like a gong, pleasure reverberating through him)_ and came, his back arching, heat sweeping over him, and Baz held him up, and followed, the sound buried against Simon’s neck.

When Simon’s breathing finally slowed enough that he could hear over it, he realized he could feel Baz’s lips against his back, whispering something over and over, inaudible. With a groan that was almost entirely not about his arm, he turned over and ran his hand up Baz’s cheek, re-buried it in his hair.

Baz’s chest was still heaving, but he turned his face into Simon’s palm as always. “That was….” He shook his head and lowered his eyes.

“Amazing? Fantastic?” Simon couldn’t help snickering just a bit. But he studied Baz’s face and then said quietly, “Scary?”

Baz’s eyes snapped up and he stared back at Simon. Then nodded. “Yes. To all,” he added. Simon stroked a thumb over his cheekbones and kissed him.

They kissed and kissed. Simon often lamented to himself that the main drawback to that position was awkward lip access. He tried to make up for it, now, and for the next five minutes straight, till Baz pulled back a bit, smiling.

“Even vampires have to breathe some time,” he chided, and it was amused, but there was also that flicker of worry in his face as he brought a hand up, lifted Simon’s chin, and ran a trembling finger down his neck.

Simon could feel the pressure on what was probably a bruise. But no broken skin. He put his own hand over Baz’s and caught his eye. “Just a love bite,” he said.

Baz snorted, disdainfully as ever, but still his eyes seemed big and shocked and soft, staring at Simon’s neck like he could hardly believe it—or maybe like he was trying, _trying_ to believe that he could do that, only that, in spite of his words—could _not_ hurt Simon. Could take care of him. Simon leaned in and kissed over his eyes, the delicate skin of his eyelids, so thin and fragile.

“It’s all right, Baz. We just need… practice.”

“Practice?” One eyebrow arched up, and one side of his mouth twitched.

“Practice,” Simon said with a small grin, and raised his chin. “You could do it again.”

A breath. “I could.” Baz smiled, just as small, and lowered his lips to Simon’s neck.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank Crowley for tumblr headcanons.  
> Also for my betas. Thank you L for the summary for this, so much better than any of mine, which were all along the lines of "Plot! Domesticity! Smut! This fic has it all, in a semi-confused jumble!"  
> Title from Bastille's These Streets.


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